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Life after the breakup of the band - a group John’d been part of for fourteen years, counting the Quarrymen era - was far from simple. What had once been routine suddenly became something… Distant, an ordinary memory that, when recalled, triggered a dull ache in his chest and made his stomach knot up instinctively. Even though Lennon was the first to express a desire to leave the Beatles, the split was no less painful for him. After all, he was used to screaming female fans, spending entire days in the studio, recording songs until sunrise, and downing free drinks in bars. That was his routine; somewhere between the lines, you had appeared too, but you understood that you played a supporting role in Lennon’s life - music was the leading lady in the guitarist’s heart. You understood and accepted this because, despite his frequent absences, John would come home with bouquets of flowers, making up for his time away. That was how things were when he was still in the band. Once he started "going solo," everything basically went to hell.
Things only got worse after Paul recorded a few songs that John listened to and insisted were a direct attack on him. He drank more, smoked more; he was simply a wreck of the man you once knew. You shouldn't have felt such responsibility for his actions - you weren't married; in fact, you weren't even engaged, as the bespectacled musician kept putting off the proposal. Songs recorded solely to "get back" at McCartney, the compulsive listening to every new track of his, and the obsessive analysis of his lyrics - all of this became your daily reality. Aside from your own passions, in John’s eyes, you had been reduced to nothing more than a cook, a cleaner, and a housekeeper. You stopped even sharing a bed; sometimes he slept on the couch, while on other nights he wouldn't come home at all, returning only in the morning, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol, just to crash on the bed, sleep the day away, and head out again late in the evening, most likely to the studio.
As time went by, nothing seemed to improve. John stopped obsessively analyzing his ex-bandmate’s lyrics, yet he still spent more time away from home than at it, and every promise he made ended the same way:
“I’ll take you to that restaurant you wanted to go to.”
“I’ll buy you that necklace I promised you for your birthday.”
“I won’t forget to come home for dinner tonight.”
Needless to say, these were just empty words, devoid of any real substance. He would feed you these silly promises, meaningless to him, only to forget them and resort to the same old excuses: he didn’t have time because something came up, he’d forgotten which restaurant it was (he always remembered, of course, but had to come up with something so it wouldn't look like he hadn't spared a thought for you), and - your favorite - he’d remember next time. He never did - you were well aware of this. After everything you had been through together, he didn't even remember your favorite flowers anymore. There was one time he bought you flowers for your anniversary - never mind that the actual date had been a week earlier, and he claimed he hadn't had time or that the florist was suddenly closed - but not only were they already wilted, they were also completely different from the kind you liked. To you, it was like buying violin strings as a gift for a guitarist.
It hurt - truly, deeply - and made you pray at night (even though you’d never been religious) that John was cheating on you, just so you could leave him without a guilty conscience. To tell the truth, you were slowly starting to think it might actually be better if he were cheating. At least then you’d see that, deep down, he was still the same John you loved - even if he loved someone else. It also led to a lot of soul-searching in front of the mirror. Had you changed since the last time he’d said that bittersweet "I love you"? Have you gained weight? Had you started acting differently? Or had you hurt him deeply, and was he now punishing you with his behavior? It was the same story when you were cooking. Maybe you’d done something wrong; maybe he thought you were cheating on him and spent his days looking for proof... No. After all, you spent all your time in the apartment you shared, leaving only for work - where most of the staff were women anyway.
You absolutely didn't understand his train of thought. Sure, you knew he was searching for his... What did he call it? Artistic awakening? But for God's sake, that wasn't something that required his undivided attention 24/7! He had a partner, an apartment, hot meals, and a place to sleep, yet he still preferred to hang around studios and bars, talking to God knows who... The mere thought of it made you want to bury your face in your hands and sob. He had everything, and yet, apparently, he needed more. More than who you were and what you could offer him.
Your last resort was the wardrobe - or rather, the suitcase you kept inside it. As you tossed out the cold dinner that had been waiting for Lennon’s return, you decided to just throw it all to the wind. You hung up your apron and, almost automatically, headed for the bedroom, where you hauled the suitcase out into the open. Inside were the clothes you had packed for the vacation that never happened - because John "was busy and didn't have the time." You had never heard a bigger lie. You began frantically pulling clothes out of the closet and packing them, for you had no idea when he would finally show up at the house. You might have anywhere from a few hours to just a few minutes - it was impossible to predict.
To your surprise, the apartment door opened with a dull click. So, it turned out to be one of those days when your constant thoughts about John made his conscience prick him enough to come home.
“I’m home, I brought you some flowers you like!” He announced this as he strode deep into the house in his shoes, without a shred of shame or common sense. You had only just cleaned the floors... You simply bit your tongue. Since you didn't reply, he started looking for you around the apartment, eventually finding you in the bedroom. He looked fine - it didn't even seem like he smelled of alcohol that day - but that didn't mean you were staying.
"Where are you packin’ fo’? A work trip?" He asked stupidly, clutching a bunch of flowers - not your favorites, as usual. You didn't even have the energy to correct him anymore.
"No, I'm moving out. I'm leaving, John." You said coldly. You closed the suitcase, stuffed full of clothes, and stood up, checking to make sure it wouldn't pop open at the slightest jolt.
“Why?”
“Why would I stay with you? You’re never home; you don’t even remember our anniversary or what damn flowers I like! You treat me like your maid, not your partner, John.” You hissed at him, brushing past him in the doorway and moving dangerously close to the exit. You threw your coat over your shoulders, wrapped yourself in a scarf, and shoved your feet into your shoes. You could always come back for the rest of your footwear later, or ask your friends to help you pack everything up while Lennon was out. You’d figure something out; for now, the plan was simply to leave the house and call a few friends to see if you could crash with them before working up the courage to show up on your parents' doorstep.
“Luv, I’ve never said you’re my maid.” He tried to appease you by thrusting a bouquet of flowers under your nose. "We can work through this, right? You’re going to throw away years of a relationship just because I was a bit busy?" he asked, and you realized this was the moment he would start playing the victim. He hadn't been "a bit busy"; he had been practically absent, and you no longer had the strength to fight it.
"Work it out with yourself first." You said curtly - and those were the last words you spoke to him. You walked out of the house with a heavy suitcase in hand, the door slamming shut behind you so hard that the pictures on the walls rattled. The cold air hit you full in the face, as if trying to make you realize that this was the official closing of an old chapter and the start of a new one.